There's A Reason to Fear the Dark
by apAidan
Summary: Antonin Dolohov saw a chance to escape from Azkaban and took it.  Unfortunately for him.  AU-set in the same world as "The Ninth Day of Christmas" For those whom are upset by plural marriages, there is a momentary reference to such in this story. H/Hr/L


**There's A Reason to Fear the Dark**

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><p><em><strong>AN** – This story is set in the same AU world as my other story "On the Ninth Day of Christmas" (Shameless author plug). Canon compliant up through the Final Battle. (Epilogue? What Epilogue?) Tangential reference to a plural marriage occurs – if this sort of thing sends you running off into the night – please see the warning at the end of this story before venturing too far without a torch._

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><p><em>Sunset 8 July 2008 - Ruins of Lestrange Manor near Exeter in Devon, England<em>

Even factoring in having escaped after a decade in Azkaban Prison, Antonin Dolohov had had better weeks. On the run since escaping from the transfer point on the Scottish coast two days ago, the former Death Eater was finally in sight of his goal, the former home of the late and generally unlamented Lestrange family.

His odyssey to freedom and revenge had begun back in May. Since time had no real meaning to the permanent residents of Azkaban, the only way he had known the month was the fact that he had just suffered through witnessing the yearly degradation known to the rest of the wizarding world as 'Victory Day'. The day that damned Harry Potter and his mudblood whore defeated the Dark Lord.

It had been just two days later when he had seen Potter's whore walking through the passageway outside his cell in the robes of a Ministerial Advocate. Seeing the involuntary glance that she had given his cell, he was inspired for the first time in years to be the wizard he was deep inside.

Jumping up from the ledge that served as bed and seating area and rushing to the small barred opening in the door to his cell, he had loudly cursed the mudblood, reminding her that she had been lucky to survive his spell at the Ministry all those years ago and that one night he would find her and finish what he had started, after taking payment from her body for the years he had spent in Azkaban, both then and now.

He could see in her eyes that he had gotten to her, that his words had pierced that haughty exterior that the mudblood surrounded herself with. As she hurried away while he was cataloging the uses he would put her to before he ended her existence, the fear he could sense from her was heady and more than made up for the pain that the guards inflicted upon him as they 'subdued' him following his verbal onslaught.

He was still buoyed by the thoughts of the fear and doubt he saw when the Warder of the prison came to his cell two days later to inform him that charges had been filed regarding the incident and he would be taken to London later this summer to stand trial for the threats he had made. Laughing at the man, what could more charges do when he was already sentenced to life plus 147 years, his only consolation that morning was the fact he'd get a chance to face Potter's whore again, see her eyes as he reminded her what he would do to her during his trial if he ever got the chance.

And while he hated the old blood-traitor's memory, Mad Eye's maxim of 'Constant Vigilance' would be his watchword. Any time he was out of his cell, that was a chance for freedom and the hoped for revenge that now kept him alive.

Later that night, Dolohov woke to a faint red glow and the smell of sulfur in his cell. In the corner, glowing red hot, was a message tube marked with the recognition runes that he hadn't seen in a decade, the codes that the Dark Lord's inner circle had used to communicate between themselves before everything had fallen apart.

Singeing his fingertips, he quickly removed the message from the tube, knowing that according to custom the tube and its message would disappear very soon. Reading through the coded message, Dolohov smiled as he realized that his old partner Thorfinn Rowle had finally redeemed himself.

While still blaming Rowle for the debacle the night they failed to capture Potter, his whore, and the blood traitor Weasley brat, he saw that the blond must have eluded capture all these years and finally had been able to smuggle this message in using the hellbat familiar that he had acquired during that last year.

As the tube and message began to disintegrate, Dolohov returned to his cot, planning what he would do when he won his release.

Rowle's promise of a portkey in the form of a broken Gryffindor cloak clasp was particularly ironic, considering the house affiliations of the first two who were going to feel his wrath when he escaped. All he need do was bide his time and look forward to his upcoming trial.

Never had two months passed so quickly for a prisoner in Azkaban. Dolohov's only concern was not changing his daily routine, such as it was, which might alert his keepers that something was amiss. Plodding through the days, schooling his features to hide the fact that he was looking forward to standing trial for the threats he had made, Dolohov planned over and over in his mind the steps he would take once he had reunited with Rowle and received a wand.

Finally, the morning of his hearing had arrived. Smiling smugly to himself as he remembered the two interviews with the Ministry Defense Advocate assigned to his case, Dolohov allowed himself to be herded through the halls of the permanent detention block, and down the ramp to the boat dock where his transportation to the mainland awaited.

Noting, once again, the irony of the appearance of the small boat that transferred prisoners to and from this particular hell on earth, he resisted the urge to refer to the goblin standing at the steering oar mounted to the stern of the small vessel as Charon. The knowledge that the magic that propelled the boat and kept it afloat was tied to the goblin, and that if the goblin released his hold on the oar, the goblin and his escort would be portkeyed away and the boat would quickly sink into the cold North Sea, pushed any thought of attempting to overpower his escort or the steersman away.

As the boat made it's slow and inevitable way to the distant Scottish shore, Dolohov forced himself to sit slump-shouldered and quiet on the bench, noting out of the corner of his eye that his escort was relying on the depth of the ocean and the magic dampening manacles around his wrists and ankles to keep him under control, at least until landfall. While most wizards never found reason to actually learn how to swim, the fact that the being immersed in water would cause them to increase in weight until they were an anchor dragging him to the bottom ensured that almost all prisoners except for the truly suicidal or insane were biddable on transit to and from the island prison.

The guards liked to tell how Bellatrix had tried to capsize the boat three times duding her trip to Azkaban years ago. Recognizing the name of the guard who hauled her back into the boat as the name of one of their closet operatives on the prison staff explained why he fished her out of the icy North Sea each time instead of leaving her to drown.

As the small boat came to rest against the old weatherworn quay with a hollow 'thump', Dolohov took a couple of careful deep breaths to calm himself. While getting away from the island was something most prisoners would celebrate, the thought of a hearing before the entire Wizengamot for threatening Potter's whore would leave any sane individual apprehensive at least.

Looking furtively around, trying to project an air of worry and doom, Dolohov allowed himself to be led away from the quay towards the path the led inland. Carefully counting his steps, he remembered that during the war the anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards around the landing extended forty paces to prevent intruders from appearing too close during a prisoner transfer.

As he took his fortieth step, a glint just to the edge of the path caught his eye, about six or seven paces in front and to the right. As he measured his steps, so that he would be on his left foot just in front of where he saw the telltale sign, he planted his left foot, looked off to the left and cursed.

"Dementors! Couldn't just kill me, you had to lead me into a trap and let one of the soulless do your dirty work for you."

For a moment, he sensed that his escort looked to the left and hesitated. Pushing off from his left foot, he launched himself in the air, reaching out as far as he could with his manacled hands.

Hearing the curse behind him as the auror accompanying him realized he'd been gulled, Dolohov saw the broken clasp lying under a bit of debris near the path. As he was coming close to it, he stretched out as far as he could; tensing up for the inevitable pain should the auror get a spell off before the portkey activated.

Landing hard, his hand scrabbling to grasp the portkey, he heard the bludgeoning curse released as he cried out the activation phrase from the old days, "Voldemort lives!"

As the blinding pain of the curse struck him in the thigh, the familiar hook through the navel sensation of a portkey activating took hold. The crack of the curse striking him was just before the sickening sensation of falling took hold.

Landing heavily on a rough stone floor, it took him several moments to get his bearings. Looking around the dimly lit room, Dolohov noticed a faint pulsing glow on a shabby old end table near the stairs.

Pushing himself to his feet, and ignoring the bone deep pain in his left leg where the bludgeoning curse had caught him in mid thigh, he shuffled over to the table while looking around, trying to get a sense of where he was. The room looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

As he stumbled over to the table, the sense of abandonment grew in him as he took in his surroundings. As he grasped the glowing tube on the table, he finally recognized the house crest that was worked into the paneling of the stairs leading up. He was in the deserted home of Walden McNair.

Opening the tube, he quickly scanned the coded message inside. Touching the end of the tube to the manacles, he smiled as they fell away, freeing his hands. Following the directions on the quickly disintegrating parchment, he searched through the cellar of the home, finally finding the promised portkey beneath the partially mummified body of the former master of the house.

Waiting out the time for the timed portkey, apparently Rowle had foolishly built in time to recover from his ordeal into the process; Dolohov found a relatively untouched room in the old house and tried to catch a bit of sleep while he waited out the four hours until the old, worn-out wellie took him to its destination.

That set the pattern for the next thirty-six hours, increasing his frustration and willingness to torture his rescuer slowly once he finally caught up with the fool. The last stop had been the worst, evidently the magic keeping the nearby stream out of the Rosier home had failed sometime in the past decade and the sluggish waters had reclaimed the ground floor of the structure. Of course Rowle's incompetence had led him to set the portkey to deposit him at the top of a rickety set of stairs heading up to the first floor of the house.

His precarious landing on the rotted stair coupled with his unhealed injury to his left leg had seen him falling back down the stairs and into the brackish water. The ensuing four hours sitting in damp clothes that smelled of stagnant water had set his temper on edge.

The last leg of his journey had deposited him outside in a relatively clean and spacious area, surrounded by tall plants to screen his arrival from view. Of course, the overgrown blackberry brambles that surrounded him were painful to break through, leaving him scratched and bleeding by the time he stumbled to the cellar door that was glowing faintly. While the Lestrange manor itself still showed the signs of spell damage, the cellar doors seemed relatively unscathed in the rays of the setting sun.

Heaving the solid metal doors open, revealing the steep stairs descending beneath the abandoned and ruined manor, Dolohov looked around at the surrounding grounds before beginning to descend. Since the entrance was relatively exposed, he could see the country lane that led up to the gates of the abandoned manor from where he was standing, he closed the doors behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the faint illumination from an everburning torch fitfully giving illumination at the base of the stairs.

Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, he could see that the room was one large open area, with a table sitting in the middle of the room, a faint glow coming from something on the table. Picking up the torch from its holder, Dolohov slowly and painfully made his way over to the table.

As he came closer, he could see a stand for the torch, a stone bowl sitting on the table and, thank Merlin, a wand. Hurrying closer, he could see that it was not just any wand, but his beloved eleven and three-quarters inch hemlock and chimera heartstring wand that had been seized after the Dark Lord's defeat at Hogwarts all those years ago.

Apparently Rowle had kept it from being snapped after his trial. Setting the torch in the stand, he eagerly reached out and took up his wand.

And that's when things went from bad to worse.

As his hand took hold of the wand, several things happened at once. His shock at the dead feeling from his wand was quickly overshadowed at dismay when he felt the muscles in his hands lock themselves around the useless wooden stick his wand had become. The torch flared up once and died out as the pensieve on the table began to glow with a silvery light.

Rising up from the roiling liquid in the pensieve was the image of a young witch with long blonde hair and a slightly surprised look on her face. Thinking for a second that this was a memory of the witch that he had arranged an 'accident' for almost twenty years ago for that Umbridge bitch at the Ministry, he realized that this must be the dead witch's daughter.

As the translucent image stabilized, the young witch began to speak in a slightly airy voice before Dolohov could react.

"Antonin Ivanovich Dolohov, you are the last surviving Death Eater from the Battle at the Department of Mysteries," the voice began. Pausing for a second as she seemed to stare right at him, his insides clenched at the look in the young woman's eyes. "Personally, I was content to let that go on for the next sixty or seventy years until you died at Azkaban, but you had to go and threaten Hermione, didn't you?"

Looking at him with contempt, the image of the witch looked over his shoulder for a second before continuing.

"We can't have that; the poor girl has had nightmares ever since you so rudely accosted her on her visit last May. Harry and I decided that first night that something needed to be done, so we let the fates decide which one of us would resolve this problem."

Smiling smugly, the blonde winked at him. "Oh, how rude. I really should introduce myself. My name is Luna Aranrhod Black nee Lovegood, Lady Black and I'm your nemesis tonight. Harry really wanted to do this, and unfortunately for you, I won."

Leaning forward with a conspiratorial look on her face, the image of the blonde witch grinned as she whispered, "Don't tell anyone, but I cheated. Harry always uses the same sequences in Rock, Parchment, Scissors, the silly boy."

Straightening back up, she smiled coldly. "As I said, unfortunately for you, I won. Harry would have done this cleanly and quickly. I, on the other hand, am not quite as honorable as he is. I suppose it's that being the vengeful daughter of one witch you killed or maybe it's the best friend, wife, and lover of another that you threatened thing, but regardless we're here and I'm going to tell you exactly what's going to happen to you tonight.

Genuinely smiling for the first time, Luna's eyes widened just a bit.

"During my many travels, while I finally found my crumple-horned Snorkack a few years ago with Harry's help, I never did find a blubbering humdinger." Shaking her head sadly, she sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

"However, deep in a dungeon beneath the ruins of a destroyed castle belonging to the Knights of Walpurgis in Walachia, I found a very interesting creature, as Hagrid would say.

"Thought to be mythical, this creature hides in the darkness and the tiniest amount of light will keep him at bay. This is a good thing, I suppose, since he will viciously kill and eat anyone or anything he finds in the dark."

Smiling coldly as if she could see Dolohov's frantic attempts to free his hands from the useless wand he was holding, she smirked and continued.

"I imagine it's quite a painful death, since he always leaves the heads behind, and the look of pain and horror on their faces is always quite severe."

Pausing as Dolohov moved away from the table, she smiled as he came to the edge of the lighted circle and could hear the rustling sound of something in the dark. As he returned to the table, his eyes widened as the light from the pensieve became fainter.

Staring in disbelief at the form of the witch who had orchestrated his downfall, Antonin Dolohov felt cold fear grip his heart as she shook her head.

"Oh, don't go blaming Rowle for your problems. He's been dead for a couple of years now. But he left this wonderful journal containing all your old Death Eater codes and recognition symbols in his vault. I managed to nick it when we cleaned it out, and it's been very useful in cleaning up the last remnants of your old gang."

As the light began to dim, and the circle of light began to close in on him, she smiled one last time.

"Say 'hello' to Tommy Boy and Bellatrix when you arrive in Hell for me. And speaking of manners, I really should introduce you to your destruction." Looking over his shoulder, she smiled evilly.

"Grue, meet your dinner, Antonin Dolohov. Mr. Dolohov, meet the Grue."

And with that, the light disappeared and the pain and screaming began.

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><p><strong>AN 2** - Everything recognizable in the story is the property of JK Rowling and various corporate entities with the exception of the Grue. Luna borrowed the Grue from the land of Zork, who had borrowed the Grue from Jack Vance's Dying Earth series, and I would like to thank the creators and distributers of that wonderful world who taught a generation of adventurers the wisdom of never being without a torch.

****Warning**** It is pitch black. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.


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